The Good Old Days
by Rosa Clearwater
Summary: "We're all stories, in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?" - The 11th Doctor, Doctor Who


The quotation that inspired this piece:

"We're all stories, in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?" - The 11th Doctor, _Doctor Who_

 _Official A/N:_ In honor of a fantastic show that will soon be leaving Netflix, I made the decision on this one. This is my tribute to a great work of fiction - I can only hope it's a good tribute.

This will be multiple perspectives for many of the episodes - not all of them, but a decent amount. And, to keep a certain air of method and order, I will be citing all the episodes at the end. And, be warned, _**there will be spoilers for those who don't know this series.**_

Also! I do know Poirot is Belgian. I'm just going to occasionally tease the fact that most of society assumes he's French.

Enjoy!

 **._._.**

Mister Poirot seems a little stuck-up in the cheery delivery man's opinion. Kind of snooty, too, using some sort of French word to describe what was clearly a green parrot.

But, then again, Hercule Poirot was known as a general fuss for those who ever had to deliver to - or, from - him. And, although he's probably not that bad of a bloke, it's with a slightly smug feeling that the delivery man leaves behind the parrot.

Besides, the man does look a bit like a penguin. So, wouldn't he and the parrot get along swimmingly, then?

 **_._**

I don't know why I was forced to stay outside of the room where that Inspector was speaking, I'm not even sure why I haven't been shoved off to bed because it's almost nine o'clock. But mum seemed interested in listening to this Inspector talk for an hour, and if that meant I wasn't going to bed early who am I to complain?

Still, it's not really fair to expect me to just wait outside. I am eleven after all and I think I deserve to at least see why I'm not home already - it's been a long day as it is.

So, sorry Mum, but I just had to sneak into the balcony after five minutes of standing next to the door.

And, at first, I'm just confused: he's a detective and all, but why isn't he talking about the dead bodies or the murders themselves? Surely he's seen a few of those?

Eventually, the Inspector - Happ or something like that - gets to some of the cool stuff. He talks a little bit about some of his hardest cases. But, then he starts to go on and on about the philosophy behind detective work, and it's late so I think it's fair I fell asleep.

...

"Because detection is a dark and lonely business, and detectives are perhaps inclined to be lone wolves - if you'll pardon the expression." Okay, so I managed to wake up to something that seems sort of interesting.

"And, at the conclusion of a case, there are always other parties - not of the police force - who will claim to have solved it. I refer, of course, to that bane of the policeman's life, the amateur sleuth. Or, worse still, the professional private detective."

It's at this point, I'm not really paying attention to the bloke. Course, I can still listen, but there's another man who's just entered the room. Someone who's clearly rich and someone who didn't look all that happy.

"The professional private detective, ladies and gentlemen, is not the glamorous work of fiction. He is a man who, failing in more worthy walks of life and being of meddlesome and troublemaking disposition," The Inspector seems to be getting upset himself, though I'd say that stranger is angry. "finally comes to rest in a dingy office above the chip shop where he plies for hire in the sordid world of petty crime and divorce."

It's so odd, but that stranger seems to take this part of the talk very personally. Now I'm happy I snuck back inside because I think these two are about to have a row.

"Except, I have to say," The stranger's now looks like he's definitely ready to leave, but the copper is still oblivious. "For one."

It's weird: the stranger's just standing there, in the corner. His back is to me, so I can't really tell if he's angry still.

I just have to listen and watch, I guess.

"I have been fortunate in my career, in that many - indeed perhaps most, of my cases have been shared with that extraordinary of private detectives. And, if I may borrow a word from his native tongue, that _doyen_ of the Belgian Police Force, Monsieur Hercule Poirot."

Weirder still, now the well-dressed bloke is turning around.

"I think I may say without fear of contradiction that Hercule Poirot has one of the most original minds of the twenty-first century. Intelligent, brave, sensitive devastatingly quick. Hercule Poirot stands head and shoulders above any other detective of my considerable experience."

No idea who this Hercule Poirot detective is, but I think that stranger isn't angry anymore.

_._

Chocolate has long since lost his favor. He will humor friends who offer it, he won't publicly voice his vehement disinterest.

But, on rare occasions when he is reminded of a particular chocolate box… He is not quite able to stop the tears.

_._

"One thing, Poirot." The voices were muffled, but the necklace could still make out the words. "I know you were waiting for them, but why did you think they'd come here?"

"They came here, Hastings, to retrieve the necklace."

Speaking of the pearl necklace, it had to admit that it did not care for its current containment.

"I see… Where is the necklace?"

It's true that this is a thought-out prison. Yet, it was also hastily put together. Its only purpose is to shield the necklace from investigating eyes.

"The necklace, Hastings?" A smile can be heard even though the necklace cannot see a thing.

"It is, I think…" But, this is a speaker who knows exactly what they are looking for.

And, for that the necklace can only hope that what he is looking for is in fact correct.

See, cold hands have been clutching it for days. Hands there were only interested in the pearl's value, only cared for it as an object to be sold and not treasured.

So, when delicate and inquisitive fingers gently pull it out of its elegant prison, the necklace can only be immensely grateful for the newfound freedom.

 _"_ _Voilà_ ,"

_._

Green pipes looked on apathetically as glass shattered and a door was slammed open.

Steam hissed out disinterestedly as the sounds of footsteps and gunshots echoed menacingly around the complex. Metal clanged as scurrying steps stalked the setup. Meticulous footfalls held trepidation in their strut. Responsible, firm shoes quietly sounded across the floor.

"Get back, Poirot!" But the detective didn't care for his safety.

And neither did the building.

"James, _no!_ "

"Don't make me, then!"

The sound of a body being forced back into the safe, but unforgivingly cold, machinery.

"Plenty of time for heroics when he runs out of ammo."

But the bullets were all too thrilled to make themselves known. They cried for attention and the shooter was all too willing.

To the very traumatizing point...

 **" _No!_ "**

To the very traumatizing point where the gunman wanted to save the last bullet for himself.

 _"James!"_

The pipe burst.

The body falls.

And the journal slides back into the open, embracing the falling droplets for what they were.

_._

I must admit, I've been looking forward to this part of the evening for most of the night. Carlotta Adams' shows always make for a hilarious treat, so long as you're not the one she's making fun of. And, judging from the unusually well-known crowd tonight, I can safely I won't have her attention.

But, she undoubtedly claims mine.

Hands clap together and she drops the uncanny impersonation of Herr Hitler.

"Good grief!" The harsh voice that had just filled the room has been switched for something far more feminine and far more American.

"Someone has shot Herr Hitler." I snicker at this, finding the situation to be quite silly. And, she turns her body, allowing her face to tilt with seemingly coy inquisition.

"So, _who_ do we call in?" Carlotta turns around, her sleek black costume still captivating my eyes even though her back is to me.

And, judging from the audience tonight, I'd say that we're about to call in-

A cane is put together, and she gracefully twirls around to reveal one of the funniest - and one of the more distinct - fake mustaches I've ever seen.

It is impossible not to know who she is now imitating, and so a bark of laughter escapes me at this point.

This is the only time I'll let myself tear my gaze away from her to observe said Belgian freeze with his glass hovering a mere centimeter from his lips.

And then she waddles in an incredibly exaggerated fashion towards the man, and it is a battle not to roar with laughter at this.

"Ah! _Regarde,_ " Her accent is, how would he have said it, _très bien._ "There is a dead body on the floor. I will now 'ave to use my little _grey cells_!" I think I see Poirot turn out of the corner of my eye, but I can't help but put my attention mostly on Carlotta.

"But why 'as _Monsieur_ 'itler been assassinated? Was it, perhaps his politics? _Non._ " Her eyebrows at it, contorting effortlessly as she speaks. "I think it was, instead, because of his ridiculous…." Everyone, myself included, waits for what they know will be a hilarious punchline. " _Mustache_."

Poirot concedes her impression with a polite nod and I can't help but continue to snicker into my drink.

_._

"Here you are, sir," It wasn't in her job to eavesdrop, and normally she wouldn't. But, as she was still waiting for her food, Elsie couldn't help but come back to a strange conversation she briefly caught.

" _Voilà_ , Hastings." His sigh seemed to speak of contentment and she had to admit to curiosity: why would such a man, one who clearly blended well into the scene of this restaurant, sound as though he hadn't seen this kind of food in weeks. "The little grey cells, they are the army of Napoleon."

Such a funny little phrase, it had caught her attention immediately.

"You mean, they march on their stomach?" If Elsie was now curious enough to only give small "hmm"s of agreement to her companion - a man content to prattle on and on about his accomplishments in life - it would probably go unnoticed.

"You had any thoughts then, Poirot?"

" _Oui,_ it is true, Chief Inspector, that the discovery of a large quantity of heroin close to the place where Arlena Stuart was murdered would indicate that this was the motive for the crime." She was no longer just curious.

"You said you smelt her perfume in the cave." _Cave? Heroin?... Murder?_

What an interesting conversation that foreigner seemed to be engaged in. So much more so than the one she was currently stuck with feigning fascinating in.

" _Oui._ "

"Well, there you are, then. She went into the cave, stumbled on the heroin, realized there was some sort of drugs ring operating on the island, someone strangled her to silence her." The Chief Inspector seemed quite set in this concept - and it appeared to be a rather convincing one for Elsie at that, horrid as the subject was.

"No." The French man seemed equally set. "One question, Chief Inspector: The cave, it is dark and unpleasant, no? Why did she enter? Was she indeed being blackmailed? Also, what was in the bottle that was thrown at Mademoiselle Brewster? _And,_ how did the spectacles of Lionel Marshall come to be at the bottom of the ladder? And, yes, also I wonder what was in the book that he was reading."

 _Well, that certainly seemed like more than one question to me!_ And, from the looks of it, the Frenchman's other companion seemed to agree - judging from the smile.

"It's good to see you back on form, Poirot." This remark gets the foreigner to chuckle a little.

"One helping of spotted dick and you'll probably solve it." This brought amusement out of the whole table. Even got a smile out of the shameless eavesdropper.

"Elsie, did you hear a thing I just said?"

_._

It is indeed astonishing what a person can inspire.

The courage to walk back and face the possibilities, regardless of reality might coldly bring.

The confessions to manipulation, deceit, cruelty, _murder_.

The calming waves of nostalgia that settle over one like a faded blue dress as one stands ready to greet the past...

"How kind of you to come."

_._

It was such a serene scene for a murder to take place.

Truly, it was such a waste of a pleasant morning to have to poison Mr. Poirot.

But, he was getting in the way of a nice, tidy little sum. And, he was the one who had been so rather insistent on this meeting.

Fortunately, he was also on the verge of coughing up a storm. And, so Mary knew it would only be a matter of time before she would be able to slip out into the sunshine.

"So, it was the tea." Well, she certainly wasn't going to deny the accusations now that he had finally drunk his. "You poisoned it. You drank it with Mary," A satisfying huff - satisfying to her ears only - sounded. She now just wished she could find that blasted emetic and that the bloody frog would just croak.

"And, a little while later," It was getting harder for him to speak. _Good_. "Elinor Carlisle finds you with a prick from the needle in your arm, standing over that basin where you had been so sick."

 _What a pity it took him this long to figure it out._ Alas, it was no longer going to be her problem, judging from his unusually gaspy voice.

"And now I have to do it again." Even if she couldn't find that wretched emetic, she did at least have the needle at hand. "The poison's safely washed up. Though, luckily, I had much less than _you_." It was so refreshing to see such a look of drowsy outrage emerge from the "intelligent" man - he was clearly close to death's doorstep.

"Not morphine this time. Something nastier." She admitted with an unapologetic hint of glee. "But, nobody will quite know how it entered your system. And there's no trace of it."

The undignified coughs came back, hobbling into the room and attempting to grasp the air with every forced exhale.

"Oh, but, my dear lady." A hint of raspiness entered his voice. She snuck a hazy glance at him, properly beginning to feel the effects of her poison.

"There is."

Immediately, the air he exhaled smoothed into a gloriously calming legato. The breathy coughs abandoned the air for a silence filled with poise. Shuddering shoulders straightened into a spine bound by knowledge.

And brown eyes stared knowingly into green.

"You see," He picked up the red rose out of its temporary vase.

"I _hate_ ," The cup was turned, ready to be lifted. "And _always have hated_... tea _._ "

The poisoned tea was smoothly poured.

And Mary now knew it was far too late to slip back into the sun.

 **_._**

Just like so many others in the room, the famous detective's entrance had snagged his notice and coyly demanded his gaze.

Granted, seeing the poor man in the clutches of that vulture of a woman - dancing to _Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart_ no less - made his initial curiosity morph into a form of second-hand embarrassment.

_._

There is always an air of trepidation that surrounds any seasoned detective, especially those that delve into murder. The idea that one day they will have to face the crime scene left behind by a dear friend - or, worse still, the crime scene of a dear, _slain_ friend - is a companion to all the other nightmares one has.

So, when the scream issues, when Lady Tamplin stumbles off the Blue Train murmuring something involving Katherine, Poirot begins to steel himself as he steps on the train in her stead.

 _"_ _I shouldn't have to look at all of that blood."_ It is the only thing he can hear as he is bowled over by another shrieker, as he stands ready to face that awful reality that he never wants to accept.

And, then the door opens. His shock reveals itself alongside with the _ingénue_ of the hour, Katherine, who is perfectly alive and well.

Poirot can barely refrain from repeatedly reassuring himself that she is alive when his eyes finally capture the sight of what could have been her reality.

…

Soft, ocean breezes. Soothing for the ordeal that had just occurred.

" _Et bien! Immédiatement_ , Poirot will go and pack his meager possessions and join you!"

"Actually," Hesitation is coaxing out her words now, but she does indeed speak them. "I'm not planning to go back to London just yet."

A sharp turn of the head and a narrowing of the eyes indicates that he wishes for her to explain.

"It's peculiar, really, given everything that's happened but I've discovered I rather like travel." He beams at her spirit. "So, I'm going to keep going a bit."

He manages to splutters out agreement, pleased that she's grown as a person and disappointed they will now have to part.

 _"_ _Oui_." It's more of a breath and less of an agreement.

"I'm going to Vienna, picking up the Orient Express. The idea _thrills_ me." But her smile fades at a sudden thought. "But I suspect you've been on it millions of times."

"Not once!" He confesses. "But I _must_."

"You've been so very kind to me, _Monsieur_." Now, he cannot help but pause - happiness hesitating at this admission of gratitude.

"You're a very dear man. A first-class _avuncular_."

And then she kisses the shocked detective on the cheek. And, as Katharine turns, a bemused thought attempts to produce some form of a smile on the detective's face.

But, this is Poirot. And, so he can only stare out into the waters and think.

_._

"So, if we can find the victim, we can find a hallmark, too."

"What do you mean?"

"He means that man is an unoriginal animal."

"Really? Women are capable of infinite variety."

"Have you never written the same plot twice?"

"Mr. Wheeler, please."

" _The Lotus Murder_ , _Death of a Debutante_."

"Oh, you've read them, have you?"

" _Oui, bien sûr._ And, I have noticed several inaccuracies."

"I know, I know. I made sulfonal soluble in water, and it isn't."

A smile peeks out, one that is certainly not her own.

"Bother." Came the vexed mutter.

The smile widens.

_._

"Madame Leadbetter. _Count_."

Beatrice really had to make sure Madame Leadbetter and her dog didn't always situate themselves firmly in the main room. Especially, when she herself was being held captive by a phone caller in the other room.

"How do you know my name?"

"I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, madame, on previous visits to this establishment." The man in question paused, before introducing himself. "Hercule Poirot."

"You killed what?"

Beatrice could only pray that Mister Poirot would take this question in stride.

_._

This really was making for quite an undignified and horrifying cold scene. And, I really did want to do something about it.

" _Monsieur_ Poirot, that's impossible." But my dear Belgian was not going to back down on this accusation.

" _Impossible? Non!"_ He withdrew from the instinctive French and retreated into the English language to regain his renowned calm. "There was no opportunity of taking the tennis racket there and then because of the evacuation most sudden of the British people. And to obtain a secretarial position, it was not difficult. I propose that you paid a sum most substantial to the former secretary of Mademoiselle Bulstrode's-" _But that would mean that-_

"Vera?" I had to ask, unable to conceal my shock at the concept.

" _Oui!_ To vacate her post." And suddenly, the language is still English but my friend picks up in cadence once again. "Now everything is easy, is it not, _hein?_ If the tennis racket of a child went missing, what of it? And simpler still, you could now gain access to the sports pavilion at night and… _abstract_ the jewels."

Unfortunately, he doesn't sound as deluded as I originally perceived.

"But you had failed to take into account Mademoiselle Springer."

"This is _crazy._ " And he scoffs, legitimately scoffs, with a hint of irritated sass that most definitely does not fit the ghastly scene.

"Miss Bulstrode, you can't honestly.…" But she trails off because I can believe this and now I _do_ believe this.

"Anyway, where's your proof?"

Well, that's the moment in this little scene of ours where - pardon my language- all hell breaks loose.

_._

"What can I do?"

Concern for a _cher madame_ is what has him pause at this plea for action.

"Nothing, madame."

"Nothing?"

"No, nothing at all. Just be careful, _hein?_ " She fixes a stare on him, frustrated that this is what his instructions for her are. It is this frustration that makes it difficult for her to see the evident danger in her potential actions.

But he can.

"Where there is murder, anything can happen."

"Murder? Who's been murdered?"

"Well, Nanny Seagram, of course."

"So," Curiosity is stringing these words along, stitching reckless thoughts into the pauses. "You don't think she took her own life?"

"No, no, no. Not for one second."

…

When Madame Oliver is brought back to his apartment quite unconscious, concern rears its head once more. And when she awakes and acts as though she's momentarily lost all memory, he can only beam at the fact that she recognized his mustache - that she did not in fact go too down far the bunny hole.

The worry, veiled in reproachful lectures, would eventually revisit. But, only after his friend recovers more.

"I think I'll go to sleep now." She murmurs to herself, letting her head gently fall back onto the pillow.

He admits only to himself that this current incapacitation of Ariadne's - nerve-wracking as it was - brings a sense of relief: she cannot fall into danger if she is resting in his apartment.

…

When this case finally concludes, they stand in the glow of the moonlight and observe the reunited lovers.

And he had just pointed out every thought of his that was proven to be true.

"You do think of things don't you?"

"Ah." He smiles at this little compliment.

"What a calculating mind. Tortuous. That's what I call it: Tortuous."

"Am I so calculating, madame? Am I the solver of puzzles with a heart that is cold? Or are we looking at the greatest of mysteries that life ever throws up?" He pauses, contemplating the tableau of love that stands before them. "The mystery that even I, Hercule Poirot, will never be able to solve."

A breeze of regret sails into his thoughts, capturing them for a moment.

"The nature of love."

A chocolate box, a cigarette case with the initials _B.P._ , and a silver little pin - one meant to hold flowers. These items twirl around the breeze and produce the sliver of wistful thinking.

For the victim in all of this happily beams in the darkness.

"She smiles."

A twinkling laugh escapes her lips before she snuggles further into the embrace.

"Was that a tear?"

"Oh, no, no, no, madame." His voice begins to crack.

"It is merely the breeze."

_._

The theatre is empty. Not cold, not apathetic. Just empty, save for individuals awaiting the dress rehearsal.

"It's so exciting." A feminine voice whispers, pleased to be surrounded by such elegance.

"It's only Geoff Winchester, Egg. Don't expect fireworks." A far deeper, far more even-keeled tone emits. It's not one of fascination or even curiosity.

The house lights dim and the burgundy curtains rise to reveal a penguin-like figure surrounded by a symmetrically painted garden.

Faint curiosity forces itself to rise out of confusion and the figure waddles down the stage.

" _Mesdames et messieurs,_ " A calm tenor now speaks, willing to project his movement forward along with his thoughts. "You have come to watch the dress rehearsal of a play, _hein?_ "

But, the nonchalant serenity is contradicted by the fact that he is on a stage. For when one is on a stage, one is prone to setting a dramatic tone.

"Instead I give to you…"

The sudden tension rises like highly dissonant notes on a violin.

" _Hercule Poirot._ "

And, so, Act Three begins.

_._

"You _people_!" The voice shoots across the room more sharply than a bullet and I admit I can't help but stare. "You and your kangaroo jury, your kangaroo justice!"

"You have no right to take the law into your own hands!"

" _Monsieur Poirot_. She was five years old!"

"We were good, civilized people." At this, I turned to my fellow accomplices, not only feeling strongly justified in our actions but also - strangely enough - so absolutely horrible...

"And then evil got over the wall and we looked to the law for justice." Arden continued to stare down Monsieur Poirot unapologetically. "And the law let us down."

"No, no. No, you behave like this, and we become just… _savages_ in the street! Where juries and executioners, they elect themselves! No, it is medieval!" His hands reach out, clutching at the frigid air as he continues.

"The rule of law, it must be held high. And, if it falls, you pick it up and hold it even higher! For all society, all civilized people, will have… _nothing_ to shelter them if it is destroyed!"

"There is a higher justice than the rule of Law."

" _Then you let God administer it!"_ He allows his voice to raise in volume, letting his ingrained morals flood the room. _"Not you!"_

"And when he doesn't? When he creates a Hell on Earth for those wronged? When priests who are supposed to act in his name forgive what must never be forgiven? Jesus said, 'Let those without sin throw the first stone.'"

" _Oui_."

"Well, we were without sin, _monsieur. I_ was without sin!"

"When we get to Brod - _if_ we ever get to Brod - let these good people go, _monsieur._ Hand me over to the police. My world has gone. Let these people live."

The knife finds it way into his hands.

 _"_ _Non."_

"The worse kind of murderer, Poirot!"

 _"_ _Monsieur."_

"The devil incarnate!"

"You can't stand here and defend him to us."

"You're as bad as a crook in the courthouse, sir."

And the Belgian remains firm.

"Lock the door."

"It is true, _monsieur._ You can tell these people are good people… that Cassetti - that Cassetti, he deserved to be executed for what he did, and the world knows it was a travesty-"

" _Non."_

"- That he was not!"

 _"_ _Non!_ Lock the door! _"_

The door closes.

And proceeds to be locked.

_._

"Always someone remembers something." The pen itches to be put to paper and his hand reassures it that soon it will be able to.

"You mean elephants." If the pen could tilt a head in confusion, it would. Since it cannot, Poirot does so in the pen's stead.

"Sorry, I was thinking of elephants at dinner that night." The head of the pen would have remained tilted. Since it wasn't actually possibly for the case, the pen could only speak through the Belgian's voice.

"With hesitation," A lot of hesitation, for that matter. "I ask why?"

"Because the meringue got stuck in my teeth." And it was such a firm response that it seemed to be inked into the atmosphere.

"I see." Though, he actually quite connect the pen to the oh-so-very-logical paper Ariadne had just supplied. "The pathway of logic, it is there somewhere, but…"

Personally, he was now content to erase the conversation from the banks of memory. But, Madame Oliver was far more interested in permanently penning a quirky explanation into his brain.

"Meringue," She drew out the words as though they were chalk, much to his horror. "Dentures, ivory - elephants." She begins to wander out of the room, almost like a child in her strut.

"Elephants. Must find the elephants." At this, she turns around and proudly faces the bewildered detective. "Elephants can remember."

At her exit, he halts in his proceedings.

It only after the pen has sufficiently transitioned thoughts to paper does he allow his lips to quirk upwards in mild fondness and confusion.

_._

The Big Four, that is to say the ones who had remained connected to one another over the last few decades, stood quietly in the room. After pleasantries had been exchanged - along with the relief that came with the knowledge that Poirot had only _faked_ his death - amiable conversation turned into a haunted sort of silence.

"Whatever is the matter, _mes amis_?"

It was Hastings who eventually tries to speak up.

"Well, Poirot, old chap, it's just that..." But the good Captain's voice stumbles awkwardly into that silence and Poirot can only stare in bafflement because he understands the unspoken message.

But, after all, didn't he and Miss Lemon and Deputy Commissioner Japp have this conversation only a little while beforehand? Didn't they already forgive him? And were they not all now trying to forget?

"It _was_ vital, _mes amis_. Truly."

But, the _amis_. They did not wish to revisit the emotions that barreled into them ever since they first heard of his "death". For, unfortunately, it was a possibility that was far more likely than they would ever care to admit.

_._

The apples had fallen not-so-gracefully from her lap when she had explained that, no, she was not in danger but, yes, she did need his immediate help. Granted, it was a bit of a cheap trick to send a telegram that screamed of urgency. But, still, it was one of the few ways she knew of that would get his attention.

And she really didn't want to stage a murder.

Either way, Ariadne supposed it was only fair for him to stand there so innocently as she huffed her way up to him.

"'Come at once'." Even startled and with his back turned to her, Poirot is still the very picture of elegance. "'Nasse House, Devon'."

She can only give him that particular look of exasperation as he himself is clearly not in danger - even though his own telegram spoke of matters most urgent.

" _Mais pourquoi?"_

_._

The cigarette case coyly waves to him from her purse, unbeknownst to the Countess.

He doesn't remark about anything, although he is suddenly reminded of a train from long ago. A train that smoothly whisked her away.

But, this old flame - as Hastings would've referred to her as - and her abnormally clever daughter cannot escape this time.

It is only another chance at something Poirot never would allow himself to consider. _That_ is what truly escapes.

_._

"Would you care for some hot cocoa, Captain Hastings?"

The Captain is not really sure, in all honesty.

Cocoa, along with purple flowers, swans, and that hint of a mixture of accents have all become a surreal experience.

He also can't quite stand the sound of pianos - they've unnerved him for quite some time now.

There are also haunting phrases.

 _"_ _I have no more to say."_

Phrases that steal his comfort, his security, in the middle of the night.

 _"_ _Am I justified in what I have done?"_

Words that had seemed so innocent now strung together to form a noose. One that threatened to reunite him with his friend a tad too soon.

 _"_ _I do not know. I do not believe that a man should take the law into his own hands. But, by taking the life of Norton, have I not saved others?"_

These are questions Hastings doesn't really ever want to answer.

 _"_ _I have always been so sure. But, now…"_

Honestly, Arthur sometimes he wished he hadn't ever come across this last message from his dear friend.

 _"_ _When the time comes, I will not try to save myself."_

How the man selfishly wished that his Belgian friend had done just that.

 _"_ _But, humbly offer my soul to God and pray for his mercy. It is for him to decide."_

 _"_ _Now, Hastings, my dear friend, they were good days."_

Indeed, they had been. And, every time he thought of those good days, he was reminded of that simple signature that was to be forever etched into his mind.

 _"_ _Hercule Poirot._ _"_

 **_._**

 _Episodes Referenced and/or Mentioned:_ The Disappearance of Mr. Davenheim, Double Sin, Double Clue, The Chocolate Box, Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Lord Edgware Dies, Evil Under the Sun, Five Little Pigs, Death on the Nile, The Mystery of the Blue Train, Cards on the Table, Taken at the Flood, Cat Among the Pigeons, Third Girl, Three Act Tragedy, Murder on the Orient Express, Elephants Can Remember, The Big Four, Dead Man's Folly, The Labours of Hercules, and Curtain: Poirot's Last Case.


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